A Thousand Lives
by kazzyl
Summary: How Sherlock deals with his thoughts and emotions on John's wedding day.


**So, er... yeah... Harlie threatened to hack me and publish it if I didn't. There was this post on Tumblr, something that started off with, "The first time we meet, your hair is brown and you don't love me back..." or something like that, and it inspired this. So I did a thing, and I hope it did it well, because I wrote it in like twenty minutes to cheer Harlie up and didn't bother to edit it. Meant to be read with "Say Something" by A Great Big World playing.**

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It doesn't feel right, standing next to him in this expensive suit that's grating on _every possible nerve_ in my body. The bow tie is too tight, the lights are too bright (make John's eyes look grey instead of blue), and the priest is one candy away from type two diabetes. I want to scream, throw a fit and make it all disappear so that we can be at home again, where the mould cultures are aging in the fridge, and John can make tea, and as long as we aren't here we these ridiculous suits and all of these people.

But the way he's looking at Mary keeps me here, keeps me from screaming and throwing a fit. The way he looks at Mary also keeps me awake at night, the riddled spaces that he once filled echoing so loudly that I couldn't possibly sleep, not even with medicine. But John is happy, and that is what's important, isn't it? John and the Work, that's all that matters in the end. Except John was never supposed to become important, but one morning when he passed me tea, he suddenly was.

He hasn't stopped since. And before Moriarty, before it all went straight to hell, I thought we could. I thought he could look at me like that, too.

I force a smile as he slips the ring on her finger, and says those words that sound like poison, and then she slipped the ring on to his finger and repeated them, and now the room really is too bright and the suit really is grating, and -

We have to walk down the isle again; one foot in front of the other until we reach the end, excuse myself to the lavatory. Door clicks shut, and I am leaning against the sink for support. The empty spaces are positively screaming now, and I know I can't shut them up. Drag my head up to see myself in the mirror: pale skin, hollowed face, hair all in place from Mrs. Hudson. And that is all, that is all that is there, a terrifying metaphor for what has just happened.

There will no longer be midnight runs through London, or ducking out of the clinic early to come to a crime scene, or bailing on dates. John has permanent obligations now, and ones he won't take lightly. Because the way he looks at Mary says he won't, says he chose her. And I'm not angry at him anymore, because I left him, I messed up. But I always maintained a sliver of hope, just a thin ray of false belief that maybe things could be the same. Maybe I could have for once, because I have wanted for so long.

But Mary knows his nightmares, and his schedule, and brings what I cannot: stability. Warmth. Love.

"Sherlock? You okay in there?"

Eyes shoot up to the door, the wood separating John from me, from the rest of the guests, from Mary. And for a moment, the empty spaces are silent, because John is here, and John always knew exactly what tone to use to soothe them. John always knows how to do the impossible, because he is John.

"Of course, just fixing my tie." I respond, because that's what he needs to hear. "Pictures will be starting soon, and I don't want you to look back on this day and realize my Windsor was crooked."

Hear him laugh through the door, and then he opens it, smiling like the sun, and suddenly it is okay, because he is genuinely happy, which is more than I could ever give him. I can give gunfire and danger and chaos, which he needs, but only to a point. Yes, Mary is better for him. She is the logical choice.

"It's not crooked at all," he laughs, but his eyes are suspicious. He closes the door before I breathe, and I step back when he steps forward into the small space more.

"That's because I fixed it as we spoke. Do keep up." I snap back affectionately, because I know it will make him laugh again and I don't know when I'll hear that laugh after we leave the reception. The feeling makes me sick, makes me want to scream again and rewind time; Moriarty won in this case, because there was nothing left in my chest but old light from stars that died years ago. Sometimes the gravity all of the singularities nearly brought me to my knees, because it was too much.

"Thank you for putting up with the ceremony. I know you don't particularly enjoy events like these." he continues, oblivious to just how correct he is in this case.

"It was for you, of course I would put up with it." I don't look at him as I say this, because I know something bad will happen; I know micro expressions are beyond my control, and he'll read mine like a book because he knows how to.

John goes silent and his smile disappears, I can feel it vanish without having to see it, and the air shifts. Try to go past him and rejoin the congregation of morons who dressed up, but he stops me with a hand on my chest. Savor it; do not know when I'll feel his touch again unless I injure myself, but he would know if I did it purposely -

"How long?"

"Until pictures? Fifteen minutes -"

"Sherlock." he whispers, pulling my chin down so I'm forced to look at him. Something in me bursts, and I know I will do whatever he asks, because I will always do whatever it takes for him, for John, _my_ John, _my_ John who is married to Mary, who is happy and kind and no longer broken, but a beautiful collage of foreign sands and domestic crimes and hideous jumpers and sick patients. "How long?" he asks again, this eyes scanning mine as they search for something they can never obtain.

I cannot tell him that it was the from that moment when he made tea, when he had just woken up from a post-case slumber with pillow creases still fresh on his stubbled face and his hair ruffled and slightly greasy from going unwashed after London rain. I cannot tell him it was every hour since then, and before then, and all the lonely hours that await me after this. I cannot tell him the years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds that have gone by under his spell. I cannot tell him how long, because the answer is simply, "I do."

So instead, I gather my broken voice and manage, "Congratulations, John. I'm happy for you." and pull away, retreating to the safety of the crowd and the obligations of the photographer.

The food is delicious, but it feels strange in my mouth as I sit at the table with Mary, John, and the other 'important' members of the wedding. Then there are the toasts, which are cheesy and overdone, choked with pointless emotions. Then it was my turn, and mine was simple and to the point.

"During one of our cases together, I told John I would send out my best man to handle the job. So I sent him. John is my best man, and I can only be so honored that he made me his today. And I could not be happier with the best woman he chose to live his life with."

People clapped, people were surprised I had something decent to say. John didn't look at me, and I didn't want him to, but Mary stood up and kissed my cheek, leaving a lipstick stain that felt like a scalding iron. We went through the motions until the end, where I was helping the (surprised) staff break down tables because John and Mary were getting ready to leave, and it was _something_ to keep me occupied from breaking down in the lav... and because it wrinkled the expensive suit that I was all but ready to burn.

"Sherlock," I hear behind me. My eyes slip shut, memorizing his voice. God, his voice. "We were just getting ready to leave." his voice is shaky, but I know his hands are steady, because he is John and that is what he does.

"Have a wonderful honeymoon." I cut back, stacking the folded table with the others.

"Mary saw you dance with Molly during the reception. We didn't know you could dance." he's trying to make conversation. I let him, because I want him to.

"Simple, really." I ponder my next words carefully, and then extend a hand. "Would you like me to show you?"

I tense for rejection, for one final rejection, but instead he sobs out a yes and takes my hand much firmer than necessary. We don't dance, he just leans against me, arms wound tight around my shoulders and taking heaving breaths. It takes me a moment to realize I'm holding him against me, arms locked around his waist as a final hope that he won't leave, that this isn't real.

"Say something, Sherlock, please." he shudders, and I just press my face into his hair, because I can't say anything, or at least nothing that he needs to hear. The only words that will come out are broken begs and heartfelt screams. And John doesn't need that, not now.

"Maybe in a different life," I say after a moment. "Where your hair is a different color, and your leg doesn't act up with bad weather."

"Who's to say you would find me? God Sherlock, we only had this -"

"I will always find you in every life, John. The ones where your hair is brown and your eyes are green and you're a schoolteacher. The ones where you're bald and have glasses and work in a miserable office building. The ones where you're blonde and have blue eyes that look grey in fluorescents, and have a psychosomatic limp and nightmares." he hugs me tighter, and I just continue to let my chest burst into flames until they swallow the words whole. "And I will find you in every life, John, and I will love you in thousands of them. But not this one."

His head shifts up so that he's peering up at me with a range of conflicting emotions playing over his face, and I just give him a small smile because that's what he _needs_, even though it's not what I want. John parts his lips as if he's about to say something, and I hope that it's a suggestion that we run off before Mary gets here, that we just run away and do something. But I know he would never say that, because he is John.

"John, ready to go?" Mary's voice comes from the hall over, and we break apart; I try not to flinch, but it feels like an incision has been made, and I'm bleeding out uncontrollably. This is where John goes where I cannot follow, and where everything changes forever.

"Yeah." he replies as she waltzes in, looking beautiful as ever, and then the look is there on John's face, and I know this is right even though it feels so, so, _so_ wrong. I watch as he takes her arm, and kisses her forehead, and I cringe again (but to myself), and I watch as they get in the cab and drive to the airport so they can spend a week in Aberdeen.

Once the cab is out of sight, I finish breaking down tables and stacking them, trying to keep my mind focused on his arms around my shoulders and how it felt to hear his voice in my ear one more time, _god_, one more time. I have to wait now, have to start all over in the next life until I find him again, no matter his hair color or his eyes or his anything. But I have done this before, and I will do it again; this does not ease the pain one bit, it does not keep me from bleeding out uncontrollably, but it does give me something to look forward to.

Because John will love me in a thousand lives, too, just not this one.

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**So, basically, I used the words "and," "because," and "John" more than was necessary. Cool. Er, so, yeah.**


End file.
